“Ah, Yola! your master is a man, and men are not always the best judges of one another’s looks. Perhaps the Sultan of Mongew, as you call him, might not be such a pattern of perfection as papa describes him. But no doubt, we shall soon have an opportunity of judging for ourselves. Did you hear your master say nothing about another ‘buckra’ that is expected?”
“No, Missa Kate. One only he speak of – dis same one of Mongew Castle.”
A low ejaculation, expressive of disappointment, escaped the lips of the young Creole, as she settled down into an attitude of silent reflection, her eyes turned upon the shining floor at her feet.
It is not easy to tell why she put the last interrogatory. Perhaps she had some suspicion of her father’s plans. At all events, she knew there was some mystery, and was desirous of penetrating it.
The maid was still gazing upon her, when all at once the dark Arab-like features of the latter assumed a changed expression – the look of admiration giving place to one of earnest inquiry, as if some strange thought had occurred to her.
“Allah!” ejaculated she, still keeping her eyes fixed upon the face of her mistress.
“Well, Yola,” said the latter, attracted by the exclamation, and looking up; “why do you call upon Allah? Has anything occurred to you?”
“Oh! beauty missa! you so like one man.”
“I like a man! I resemble a man! Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, missa. Nebber see it before – you berry, berry like!”
“Well, Yola, you are certainly not flattering me now. Who might this man be? I pray you tell me.”
“He man of the mountains – Maroon.”
“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble a Maroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”
“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood – eyes like yours – berry like you eyes, missa.”
“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man – much more to a Maroon?”
“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man – berry beauty man.”
“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me.”
“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”
“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa to sell you.”
This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.
“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”
“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”
“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum – how much, can you guess?”
“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”
“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”
“Who, missa?”
“Why – he who sold you to papa – Mr Jessuron.”
“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die – Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa! – beauty missa! – you no sell you poor slave?”
The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.
“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him – whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now? Cubina, was it not?”
“Yes, missa, Cubina.”
“And pray who is Cubina?”
The brown maid hesitated before making reply, while the crimson began to show itself on her chestnut-coloured cheeks.
“Oh, never mind!” said her young mistress, noticing her hesitation. “If there’s any secret, Yola, I shall not insist upon an answer.”
“Missa, from you Yola no have secret. Cubina, he mountain man – Maroon.”
“What! is he the Maroon I am supposed to resemble?”
“True, missa, he same.”
“Oh! I see how it is – I suppose that accounts for you thinking me beautiful? This Cubina, no doubt, is a sweetheart of yours?”
Yola lowered her eyes without making reply. The crimson appeared in deeper tint through the chestnut.
“You need not answer, good Yola,” said the young Creole, with a significant smile. “I know what your answer ought to be, if you were to speak your mind. I think I have heard of this Cubina. Have a care, my girl! These Maroons are a very different sort of men from the coloured people on the plantations. Like me, he is – ha! ha! ha!” and the young beauty glanced coyly at the mirror. “Well, Yola, I’m not angry with you, since it is your sweetheart with whom I am compared. Love, they say, is a wonderful beautifier; and no doubt Master Cubina is, in your eyes, a perfect Endymion.
“Come girl!” added she, coquettishly tossing the chestnut tresses over her shoulders of ivory, “I fear we have been wasting time. If I’m not ready to receive this grand guest, I’ll get into trouble with papa. Go on, and trick me out in a style becoming the mistress of Mount Welcome.”
With a peal of merry laughter at the air of grandeur she had thus jestingly assumed, the young lady bent down her head, submitting her magnificent chevelure to the manipulation of her maid.
Volume One – Chapter Thirteen
Quashie
In less than half an hour after the brief conversation between Mr Montagu Smythje and the young steerage passenger, the Sea Nymph had got warped into port, and was lying alongside the wharf.
A gangway-plank was stretched from the shore; and over this, men and women, of all shades of colour, from blonde to ebony black, and of as many different callings, came crowding aboard; while the passengers, sick of the ship and everything belonging to her, hastened to get on shore.
Half-naked porters – black, brown, and yellow – commenced wrangling over the luggage – dragging trunks, boxes, and bags in every direction but the right one, and clamouring their gumbo jargon with a volubility that resembled the jabbering of apes.
On the wharf appeared a number of wheeled vehicles, that had evidently been awaiting the arrival of the ship – not hackneys, as would have been the case in a European port, but private carriages – some of them handsome “curricles” drawn by a pair, and driven by black Jehus in livery; others only gigs with a single horse, or two-wheelers of even an inferior description – according to the wealth or style of the individual for whose transport each had been brought to the port.
Waggons, too, with teams of oxen – some having eight in the yoke – stood near the landing-place, waiting for baggage: the naked black drivers lounging silently by the animals, or occasionally calling them by their names, and talking to them, just as if their speeches had been understood!
Among the different carriages